


the son on the wrong horizon

by suliel



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Complicated Relationships, Djinn magic, Dysfunctional Family, Family Issues, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Being an Idiot, Heavy Angst, Multi, parental abandonment
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-20
Updated: 2020-05-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:22:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 12,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23236894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suliel/pseuds/suliel
Summary: After spending years helping a strange woman adjust to life in his world after she fell out of a portal into Aen Sidhe, Geralt discovers that she had mistakenly tried to wish for him and Yennefer to have a child of their own; a wish that backfired and caused her to bear his child instead after a short-lived affair the two had. The child is raised in secret, and in an attempt to maintain some kind of peace, Geralt is forced to leave the child with their mother and go on with his life as if it never happened.But what will happen when that child grows into a bitter-hearted killer-for-hire who agrees to assassinate his own sister, and Geralt is forced to face what he has done to his own flesh and blood? Will he kill the child that is his blood, or save the one he raised? Will he expose the truth and rectify the wrong he had done, or continue to try and cover it up for the sake of peace?
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Original Female Character(s), Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 1
Kudos: 12





	1. firstborn

Five years.

Five years Eiyrde’s been gone.

Vanished off the face of the Earth, like Aen Sidhe had swallowed her up just as it had spit her out.

He almost wants to scream at her about it when he finally finds her, by accident, alone in a tiny cottage hidden away in Ard Skellige.

Well,

Almost alone.

She stands in the doorway and when she sees him her eyes widen and she tries to pull her skirt to the side to hide the child behind her, but it’s too late.

He’s already seen the shock of bright red hair.

“Eiyrde—”

The child hides in her skirt as he storms up and he realizes he’s scaring the little boy. He takes a step back and silences; that’s the last thing he wants to do.

“Eiyrde...”

She stares at him, hazel irises taking up most of her animalistic eyes. Her mouth is pressed into a tight line, and he knows he’s cornered her in a secret.

“Who is he,” Geralt asks more gently. Deep down he senses the answer, but he can’t listen to it.

“Just leave,” Eiyrde whispered. “Leave before more trouble comes to you.”

“Whose child is that,” Geralt demanded, tone raising again.

“Geralt, leave and never come back.”

“Eiyrde,  _ what did you do?! _ ”

“I said LEAVE!”

The last word twists into a roar and for a moment he is staring down the face of some muzzled animal and not the woman he once found on his bedside night after night, her anger twisting her form. When she calms, she speaks again, still hiding the child.

“You don’t want this trouble.”

“You don’t get to decide what I want.”

“It was a mistake.”

“What was a mistake?”

“Not in front of the little one.”

“I’ll be back.”

“If you know what’s good for you, you won’t be.”

He gives her a look but she doesn’t stand down. He gives in and leaves.

  
  



	2. mistake

At the height of the night he returns. Through the cottage window, as he passes, he sees the two in bed together, Eiyrde’s arms cradled around the toddler like only a mother— biological or not— would. For some reason he can’t bear to look into the boy’s face, so he looks into hers instead, the moonlight dancing across her face all too reminiscent of just how it used to when it was his bed she lay in.

Roach adjusts her step and his shadow falls across their faces. Eiyrde’s eyes open, and he watches as her pupils dilate and change shape to something more nocturnal, and she stares up at him for a few moments with a blank expression, fingers tangling in the boy’s tunic. She starts to rise and he takes the cue to ride around to the front of the cottage.

She opens the door just as he dismounts, stepping out into the cold, a shawl wrapped around herself.

“That dress doesn’t suit you.”

It’s both a lie and the truth. The dress looks beautiful on her. Her hair is long, a tawny autumn brown against the rouge of the thick, dyed cotton, and it hugs her femininity in a flattering way, but that is not Eiyrde. Eiyrde belongs in a tunic and trousers, with a baldric and boots to her knees, hair cut at her ears and muscular build on display.

“What do you want,” She asks.

“The truth.”

“About what.”

“Stop stalling. You know what.”

She sighed.

“Years ago. I came across a djinn.”

“How /many/ years?”

“Thirty-some.”

Right around when the two had been the closest to each other. Before their affair made things... complicated.

“And you made a wish?”

She looks away.

“I made three. Two for myself and one to free the djinn.”

“So your two wishes would go well.”

She nods.

“And this child…?”

“Is the result of the second wish.”

“Which was?”

“You always were the kind of man who wanted a family.” She stated softly. “You and Yennefer both. You had Ciri but— I thought, surely, a child of your own would make you both so happy.”

“What did you wish for?”

“It didn’t go as I planned. I thought the djinn had just stiffed me—“

“What did you wish?!”

“Geralt—“

“Stop fucking stalling and tell me verbatim what your wish was!” He shouts, grabbing her arm. True to her strength, she wrenches her arm away and gives him a withering glare.

“Oh Djinn, grant Geralt of Rivia a child of his own.”

“Fuck.”

“I didn’t mean for this.”

“Fuck!”

“I thought the wish hadn’t worked, for decades you and Yen were together but nothing happened—“

“And then what?!”

“And then we happened! And I realized the djinn hadn’t given Yen the opportunity to carry your child, it gave the opportunity to  _ me _ . I fucked up! I fucked up a chance for you and Yen to have a child of your own because I was stupid and unclear, and I dealt with it. He doesn’t have to know who his father is. You shouldn’t have come here. You would have been fine never knowing!”

He regrets not having explained things to her better. She wasn’t from this world, she didn’t understand that that wish would have never worked for him and Yen, no matter how she had worded it.

“Do you— do you know the implications of this?!” He roars. “What this will do to Yen? To the other witchers?!?!”

“WHY DO YOU THINK I RAISED HIM HERE, ALONE!?” She screamed back. “You think I  _ WANT _ to be away from the only family— the only  _ friends _ I have in this cursed world? You think I want to raise my son isolated and ALONE?! I KNOW I FUCKED UP! I KNOW IT! LET ME DEAL WITH IT BY MYSELF!” 

“I want to meet my son.”

“No. You can’t get attached to him. Yen will—”

“I want. To see. My son.”

She’s starting to crack.

“Geralt, no. No, I can’t, I left for a reason. You don’t want this.”

“Let me see my son.”

“Geralt...”

“Please. Eiyrde, please.”

She weakens and looked away.

“I don’t... so much could go wrong. So many people could want him dead.”

“Just let me through. Please.”

Eiyrde’s hazel eyes swim with tears and she turns away, letting him walk past.

  
  
  



	3. abandon

The boy is still asleep, splayed on his back like a starfish, tangled up in a thick cotton nightgown. He can’t be older than five, but he looks strong, older already. 

“He looks like you.”

Her voice is quiet from the doorway. 

“He’s every bit your son. Sometimes I would even wonder if he was just a clone of you.”

Geralt reaches out to touch the boy’s cheek but refrains, not wanting to wake him.

“...No. He has your nose.”

She scoffed. 

“No, he doesn’t.”

They sit in silence for a while more, Eiyrde standing in the cold, breezy doorway as Geralt looks down hypnotized by the tiny child in the cot.

“What did you name him?”

“Len.” 

“Len...”

His mind spins. He can’t wrap his head around it. This child, breathing, sleeping, dreaming, inches away. His own flesh and blood. Impossible.

And yet…

That red hair, so unusually bright, he can’t tear his eyes away from it. He hasn’t seen such a vivid hue since he was Len’s age and looking in a mirror.

“Is he like you?”

She shakes her head.

“I don’t know. I gave birth to him as a humanoid, not my true form. But he seems to have some shifting ability.”

“And from me?”

“Too early to tell if he is of your human blood or your mutated blood. Once he hits puberty we might know... what he is.”

He can’t imagine Len’s childhood will be like either way. He can hardly imagine a childhood to begin with. No, he was a Witcher before he was anything else, and Ciri came to him halfway grown already. But this... this version of him could have a normal life. A normal childhood, whatever that means. He imagines that mop of red hair frolicking in the snow, almost hears the laughter, the joy, the smack of snowballs against their targets. He wonders how Len will live, alone, isolated, knowing only his mother.

“Does he know he has a father?”

“No.”

The response leaves him cold inside.

“Does he know what a father is?”

“No.”

Again. Her tone is neutral but it makes his heart cold, colder than the world just outside that cursed door. Len is completely oblivious to his pain, his confusion, his aching, his loss. He sleeps away within arm’s reach, cheeks healthy chubby and fresh, a stranger.

“Is he happy?”

He hears the whistle of her smile and her hands slide over his shoulders, her touch just as steady as he remembers.

“I’ve never seen a child who smiles more than Len.” 

He ignores the burn of tears in his eyes. They don’t fall, but they blur his vision, his judgement. He was never meant to have a child of his own. You cannot have a family and be a witcher. He wishes he had listened to her, just left. Assumed she had gotten knocked up by another wanderer and left it at that.

But that red hair…

“Len. Len, wake up.”

“Eiyrde—”

It’s too late. The child wakes.

“Eiyri?” The toddler slurs, half awake. It sounds like  _ eerie _ when he says it, and it fits. Geralt reaches out and grabs Eiyrde’s arm, but she continues to call the child awake.

“Len, I want you to meet someone.”

He sits up and opens his eyes. He has his mother’s eyes, animal-like, and he watches as his pupils fluctuate between shapes before they settle to match his, slitted and reflective.

“Looks like me.” The boy retorts with a strange level of awareness. Just as Geralt knew, in some way he knows as well.

“He does. Len, you are my son, you know that?”

The boy nods sleepily, rubbing his eyes. Geralt can hardly swallow his throat is so tense.

“Len, every child has two parents. One female and one male. I am your mother, female. And this is your father, male.”

“Fa-ther?”

“Father.”

“Parent?”

“Yes. Like Eiyri.”

She points to herself.

“He loves you too.”

Len looks him in the eyes and it’s the most frightening and stressful situation he’s ever been in, staring this child down as he makes moon eyes up at the Witcher.

“Father?” 

“Geralt.” He manages to choke out. “Geralt, my name is Geralt.”

“Geralllll. Ger— Gewal—“

Geralt kneels down and musters up a tiny hint of a smile.

“Ger.”

“Ger,” Len repeats.

“—alt.”

“—alt.”

“Geralt.”

“Gewalt.”

“...Close enough.”

Without warning, the boy throws his arms around his neck, hugging him drowsily.

“I love Gewalt.”

Geralt freezes. And then quickly hugs Len back.

“Geralt has to go.” He finally states, pulling Len away and setting him back on the bed. “He has... things to do.”

“Buh-bye,” Len babbles before Eiyrde goes to tuck him back in. Within seconds he is fast asleep once more.

“You can’t come back.” Eiyrde tells him as she stands. “Not for me, nor Len.”

He understands, and yet he rages to do otherwise, to scoop his child into his arms and run, give up the rest of the world to stay here for him. 

And that’s exactly why he must leave.

“Goodbye.”

“In another life.”

Her cultural final goodbye is the last blade of ice in his heart as he leaves.

  
  
  



	4. death

Ten years pass. Life goes on. In the first few years, it’s impossible not to think of Eiyrde and Len, alone, hidden away. But he avoids Ard Skellige, never goes near that distant cottage again, and slowly, slowly, he forgets that shade of red all over again. 

It is winter again, and Kaer Morhen echoes quietly of boisterous laughter. On a rare occasion more than one of the witchers is there at the same time, so they take the time to drink and play and revel, even as their voices fail to fill the fortress as it once used to be filled.

That is, until there is a banging at one of the hidden doors.

“Who the fuck would that be?” Lambert immediately snaps. “They’re a dead man if—“

“Could be a paying customer, Lambert.” Geralt replies, standing and putting his cards face-down to go and address the unannounced visitor. “Cool it.”

“Don’t fucking tell me what to do,” But he stays seated, and Geralt goes to see who has come at such a late hour.

When he opens the door the wind hits him first, brisk and cold— and then he sees that flaming mop of red hair and he reels.

“Len.”

“Eiyrde is dying.” 

Well, the boy has his mother’s bluntness.

“How.”

“I don’t know. She heard something in the dark and went out to fight it.” He explained in a calm, matter-of-fact tone. “She seemed fine when she came back and said it was dead but when I woke up the next morning she was deathly-looking and struggling to breathe. None of the healing she taught me helped. But you’re a Witcher, you might know how to save her, right?”

The boy presented a hefty bag that clinked of many coins.

“I took some bounties on the way here. Take all of it, I don’t care, I just want my mother back.”

The boy’s evidently taken up his mother’s lifestyle as well. He feels odd at the notion that his own flesh and blood would feel the need to offer payment to save a woman he once loved, but, to keep face, he took the coin and nodded.

“Lead the way.”

He went to get Roach, but Len stopped him.

“No need. I brought her here. She’s resting on a wagon just down the road.”

And off they go.

Geralt leans away from the messy thoughts; depersonalizes. It’s not his son. It’s his blood, but it’s Eiyrde’s son.

Eiyrde’s already been gone out of his life for fifteen years now. If he loses her, it won’t be a big change. He’s lost before. 

It isn’t anything to be emotional about.

“Describe to me what she killed.” Geralt states as they walk down the way. Len launches into a description, but it barely takes a few words for Geralt to realize what it was.

“Aracha.” He interjects. “She tried to fight an Aracha. What was she thinking...” He murmurs. “We’ve fought these together before. She should know better. Hurry, take me to her.”

Len limps to the wagon and uncovers it for him. There’s a deeply unpleasant smell inside, which Geralt recognizes as an unfriendly mix of burnt clothing and aracha venom. 

Eiyrde, in the wagon bed, looks... horrific. Her veins stand out an angry, flushed red through ashy skin, once tanned, now devoid of all life. There’s bile and sick around her mouth, so she must have been coughing violently all the while Len was gone.

Len grabs a pair of heavy leather gloves and a rag and dips it in a bucket of water, wiping her face clean. She is completely still and he can barely see her breathing.

“Was she injured at all?” Geralt asks. “Anything. The smallest nick or scrape.”

“No. She told me to help her check the night she came back, and then she went outside and scrubbed down with a poultice and some cold water. She told me to burn the clothes and cover my mouth and nose while I did so.”

“Are you sure?”

Len nods.

“Not even a bruise.”

Geralt turns back to Eiyrde. There doesn’t seem to be any bloated or festering areas of her body; when he pulls the blanket back he can see most of her body aside from what’s covered by her night tunic, a sleeveless shift that comes to her knees. Most of the irritation seems to be around her face, where the skin is a mottled color and blood rims her nose and lips. She’s deep in a coma already, and he wouldn’t be surprised if she didn’t make it back to their cottage in Skellige alive.

“I couldn’t see any wounds on the corpse in the morning. I don’t know how she killed it.” Len stated further.

“Did she bring weapons when she went?”

“She brought her quarterstaff, but when I first left to find you, I found it clean and far from the carcass.”

“How long was the fight?”

“Very short. After maybe fifteen minutes of silence I heard one wail, some thrashing, and then a crash and silence.”

Geralt hummed softly, then reached out and pushed her lips back. 

Her gums were caked with blood and cankered— he knew exactly what she had done.

“She killed it with venom,” He states, the image of a friendly serpent winding around his body in greeting dancing through his mind for a moment. “She must have taken the form of a snake and attacked from behind.”

“And she got... some venom in her mouth in the process?”

“Must have. Aracha venom is... there’s nothing I can do. If she lives, she lives, but even a witcher can’t survive more than a little.”

Len sits on the edge of the wagon next to her, frowning.

“How can I help? What parts of the body does it affect? Can I at least ease the symptoms, make her death easier?”

“You could try to clean her mouth out, make sure a secondary infection doesn’t set in.” Geralt knows there’s nothing to be done, but he can’t bear to leave... his son, really, with no way to help. “Len... your mother is a strong being. I’ve seen her whether wounds and poisons in the past that even a Witcher would have some trouble with. Don’t be hopeful, though. Expect the worse.”

Len nods, taking his hand and brushing Eiyrde’s tawny hair back from her sweaty forehead. Despite how gruesomely she is going out, how long her body has been fighting the venom in her blood, she almost looks peaceful, just as all noble corpses do. A still image of lost grandeur.

“You know my name.”

Len’s voice breaks his train of thought and Geralt immediately regrets coming. He knows what conversation will follow and he doesn’t want to have it.

“She told me it once.”

“You knew her. For a long time. Taught her how to live in this world.”

“I did.”

“You’re my father.”

“I am.”

“If she dies... will you help me?” Len asks. “I don’t expect you to raise me. Eiyr taught me why you weren’t around, and she trained me to survive, but... I can’t stay in Skellige alone if she dies, and this was my first and only time leaving. Will you at least take me somewhere I can support myself with what she taught me?”

“No promises.” He replies quietly. He wants to keep Len as far away from himself and Yen as possible to avoid... complications. Len quiets, and he knows he’s let the boy down.

“...I understand.”

“But I might...” Geralt starts, guilt rising in his throat like bile. Len is his son. He can’t just leave him alone even though he’s sure Eiyrde’s taught him well enough how to take care of himself. “...give you the name of a friend that can help.”

Len nods, but no longer meets Geralt’s eyes, hiding his broken heart. Shame, as he’s just realized that while Len’s eyes are the size of his mother’s, they’re golden, not hazel. Just like his.

“You should go if you can’t help.” He speaks up. “Thank you for coming.”

Geralt nods.

“When she— _ if _ she dies... look for a man named Regis. Tell him I sent you. He’ll help. ...Goodbye, Len.”

“...In another life…”

Len’s mouth moves as if to begin the word  _ father,  _ but he stalls.

“...Geralt.”

And the boy turns away and takes the shape of a great wolf, as his mother once did, and goes to lead the wagon away into the night, leaving the wolf-by-title standing in the road once more feeling cold, though this time it is the cold notion of an ill premonition to come.

  
  



	5. return

More years pass. Ciri is thriving as Empress. Life could not be better. The world no longer bothers him; he does his contracts, he is paid, he moves on. 

But things will never be simple for him.

“Regis. Kind of you to drop in.”

The vampire smiles at his old friend.

“Kind of you to welcome me back so fondly. It’s been long.”

“It has. Any reason for this visit?”

Regis stalls, silent, and immediately Geralt knows something terrible is coming, if Regis of all people is silent, without words.

“You sent a boy to me. Years ago.”

Geralt’s heart drops into his stomach and he looks away, returning his gaze to the blade he was sharpening.

“Len.”

Regis sits at his side.

“A fascinating boy. Last of his kind, since his mother died, so he told me.”

Geralt knew, peripherally, that Eiyrde had to have died. Still, to hear it… she had pulled through so many incredible injuries in the past. He’d be lying if he said part of him didn’t have hope that she’d miraculously pull through again. Maybe their relationship had fallen apart, and they’d been separate from each other for decades now, but they had always been friends, and it was a hard pill to swallow, that she was gone and he would never have closure over it.

“...and he never told me, but you know how my kind… senses things. He was your son, wasn’t he?”

“An accident. A djinn wish gone wrong,” Geralt states simply. “A mistake.”

Regis sighs.

“I wish I could say I put him on the right path and he’s now an upstanding young man, but… there was a wound in his heart I could do nothing to heal. I took him in for a time, rounded out his education, found him work with a group of hunters…”

“Cut to the chase,” Geralt interjected, irritated to hear of the son he couldn’t raise himself.

“The boy ran off as soon as he felt he could take care of himself, and I fear he’s turned to serious crime as a career to support himself. And he is good; too good. If he is not stopped soon, I fear he will upset the balance you, Yen, and Ciri have worked so hard to establish.”

“What kind of crime?”

“Assassinations, murder-for-hire.”

“That’s not the worst occupation.”

“He is not as delineating as you or his mother. He is an angry, bitter young man, and I fear that he may—”

“Why don’t  _ you  _ go and stop him?” Geralt interjected once more, frustrated. He hated to hear Len was doing badly; if only he had been able to raise the boy, he might’ve… but…

“I have tried. He would not listen, and attacked me when I pushed the topic. Geralt, the boy is wounded by your rejection of him. That is the only explanation. If you would just reach out to the boy—”

“You know why I can’t,” Geralt snapped. “I turned him away for his own good. If Yen knew—”

“Yennefer does not know?” Regis asked in surprise.

“What am I supposed to tell her?” Geralt hissed. “‘I’m sorry, Yen, fifty-some years ago I had relations with another woman after she tried to wish a child for us, I accidentally knocked her up because of said wish and have been hiding the child from you since, except now he’s acting up so I want to take him back in?’”

“I can see why it might be difficult, but—”

“No. I won’t put a target on Len’s head and I won’t bring up a dead affair—”

“Len needs you. He’s a strong young man, he can handle whatever the world throws at him—“

“I will not.”

“...I’m starting to feel that you are the one who is unable to face the consequences.”

“Fuck, Regis. Of course I can’t. Maybe at the start I could have revealed my discretions, but it’s been too long now to do so.”

“Today is tomorrow’s yesterday,” Regis replied cryptically. “I am giving you a chance to save your son. Go, see him, at the very least. See the man he’s become. Maybe then you will find closure either way; to continue to reject him or to take charge.”

“...Where can he be found?”

“I myself do not currently know. But he has taken a rather silly moniker for himself amongst his fellow miscreants; the faultless death. If you ask for that name, some may be inclined to tell you where he frequents.”

“...Fine. I’ll look for the stupid boy.” Geralt replied. “But I can't promise I’ll get involved.”

“Good enough for me. Good luck.”

“Gods know I’ll need it."


	6. bleed

The tavern stinks.

It truly, truly reeks.

The noise is almost enough to overpower the scent, however, and in the drunken insanity Geralt is able to keep his hood on and slide through unbothered. At the back, he raps his knuckles on the counter in a signal tap that he learned years ago, but seldom uses due to its… unscrupulous suggestion of his moral standing.

The bartender’s attention snaps to Geralt and he sidles over with a heavy gaze.

“Seen any rain lilies on the way, sir?” The man asks. The pre-arranged answer slides from Geralt’s lips in an easy, husky drawl.

“Just a few. Trampled underfoot, though.”

The man nods.

“That’s the way of the world, it is. How can I help you tonight?”

“Have a… friend I’d like to introduce to new company.” Geralt replies carefully. 

“Ah, I understand. There’s a young man in the farthest room who would be perfect for such a task. Fresh, but promising.”

Geralt nods.

“Thank you.”

The man nods and moves back to the other side of the bar as Geralt moves down the long hall leading from the dining area of the tavern towards the rooms in the back. Not the nice, warm ones, upstairs against the chimney, but the cold, bitter, barely-insulated rooms that served as buffers for the cold against the main room.

He found the last door and moved to knock the telling knock, but as his knuckles met the wood he found the door unlocked and ajar.

“Come in,” A husky voice called from within, grouchy and low. “Hurry up. Make it fast.”

Geralt complied and stepped in and immediately the drunk splayed on the bed sat up in shock.

“Who the— fuck— let you back here?” He slurred, standing and pointing the mouth of his bottle at Geralt. “Get out.”

“Your mother was quite the heavyweight,” Geralt replied, unfazed. “Almost completely immune. You must be spending quite a lot on booze to be this drunk.”

“Like you fuckin’ care.” Len snapped, glaring at his father with a bitterly hateful snarl. He was beautiful, simply put; he had his father’s looks, though slimmer, and his carrot-red hair had darkened to a shady rust-tone over the years. Geralt wondered if that ruddy, crimson shade was what his hair would have been like, had he not been so thoroughly mutated. 

“I know you must think—“

“You’re a fucking witcher, a mutant, you don’t have any feelings,” Len snapped. Despite having heard such names and insults a hundred thousand times over, they stung particularly deeply coming from his own son’s lips, coming from a face that looked so much like his own, as if his own insecurities had grown a life of their own and were now here to spite him.

“Don’t speak of things you know nothing about.” Geralt replied.

“Oh, I know plenty enough. You cheated on your woman with my mother, and regardless of circumstance left Eiyr to raise me all by herself— you abandoned me and were of no help when she was dying! I had to pay you to see her!”

Geralt winces, regretting accepting the boy’s coin. He should have rejected it. He should have asked where a teenager had gotten that much coin to begin with. But he had hoped— imagined, prayed that Len was as mature and understanding as his mother was. That the boy intended for it to be just a business effort. 

“You know the events but not the reasons,” Geralt began. “Your mother—“

“Don’t TELL ME ABOUT MY MOTHER!” Len screamed. “If you hadn’t abandoned us, she wouldn’t have had to fight that monster alone, and she might still be alive to TELL ME HERSELF!”

Geralt took a step back to get his feet back under himself; Eiyrde’s death  _ was  _ his fault, in a way. He hadn’t been there to save her.

_ He remembers the first time he saw Eiyrde. She had been a bear, then, backing away from an Aracha, confused and afraid. He had acted out of empathy, a desire to protect the innocent from the depraved. _

_ When it finally died he turned to see if the bear had been injured and in its place was a beautiful woman, fully clothed in a short tunic and leather trousers, a sword on her hip and a bow on her back. She asked where she was, what the beast had been, and how she should kill it next time.  _

_ He told her she was lucky he was there to save her, and if she wanted to know she’d have to keep up with him.  _

“...We both acted in the way we felt would protect you the most,” Geralt spoke softly. “And yes. I admit that some of our choices hurt you just as much as they protect you from other things. I want to know what you’re—“

“He sent you, didn’t he?” Len asked, lowering his bottle. “Oh my gods. He sent you. Regis sent you. You don’t even care to see me on your own, that stupid old man sent you, didn’t he? DIDN’T HE?”

“Len—“

“No. No, get out. I’m taking care of myself on my OWN and that is NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS! I’d tell you to stop trying to care now or all times but you don’t even care, do you? No, Regis is just using you because he won’t stop me himself.”

“Len you are fucking drunk, put that bottle down and—“

“Put it down? Put it down?? Oh I’ll put it down—“

It was only Geralt’s enhanced instincts that saved him catching a heavy glass bottle to the face; he drew his steel sword and smacked the bottle about a handful of inches from his face. The bottle exploded on impact and left him with a few small nicks and scratches as the shards dissipated, but nothing that would scar.

The next thing he knew a great red bear was roaring and rearing back to pound on him; he raised his sword to block and the bear pushed him through the wall instead, at which point he rolled and backed up a few feet to be ready for the next charge.

And cold it was as the two faced off in the muddy yard adjacent the solitary tavern; a thin layer of icy snow crunches under Geralt’s boots as he circled, flurries catching in Len’s fur.

Len attacked first; charging blindly. Geralt side-stepped, not wanting to injure his flesh and blood, but Len wouldn’t stop, and Geralt was beginning to grow irritated.

Over and over Len changed and Geralt stepped aside, all the while roaring over Len’s growing and snarling for the boy to stop, to think, to give it a rest. Over and over Len ignored his words and continued to charge, until at last he twisted and managed to dig his claws into Geralt’s leather pauldron and yank the witcher’s body in a way that caused pain to bloom up his spine.

“ENOUGH!”

Geralt moved to slam the pommel of his sword onto Len’s muzzle, and in slow-motion he watched as Len’s eyes widened and his pulled back only for the pommel to glance off and cause the blade to go sliding through his flesh. 

Terrified of slitting the jugular, Geralt yanked his arm back before the entire blade could make its way down Len’s muzzle; or, rather, his face, as the boy’s human form returned once that cardinal line had been crossed.

Len dropped to his knees first, cupping his face and gagging, blood spraying all down his front like water from a turned pitcher. 

“Fuck, Len, I didn’t mean to—“

Geralt tried to approach, regret welling up under his skin like flames in a hearth, but Len staggered to his feet and stumbled back.

“GET AWAY FROM ME!” He sobbed, tears pouring from his eyes just as fast as the blood from his cheek. The entire left side of his face was split open, and Len choked on the blood that flowed into his mouth as well as down his chin and neck. “YOU STAY AWAY FROM ME!”

“Len—“

But it was too late, and a red-tailed hawk flew from his sight, dripping blood from the sky like holy rain. 

  
  



	7. lover

That face haunted him.

He had killed countless creatures, innumerable people over his life.

But he could not forget that face.

Twisted with so much anger and heartache, bleeding profusely over his own hands, neck and chest slick with blood as if he had cut his own child’s throat, not his face.

And he had new nightmares. Dreams where he did the same to Ciri, to Yennefer, where he hurt the people he should care most about. Dreams that kept him up at night out of sheer frustration and decades of regret.

He should never have slept with Eiyrde. He had taken advantage of her naivety, her confusion. It had been consensual, brief, and happy, and they had ended it on good terms, but he knew he had deliberately not explicitly told her it was an affair. He knew now of course that she hadn’t truly understood it was an affair, with the way she had phrased it when he first saw Len;  _ I thought I misunderstood your relationship _ . He must have hurt her when he decided to end it and only then said he didn’t enjoy the thought of cheating on Yennefer and they should have stayed friends.

_ She’s sitting on the storage chest at the end of the bed, dressed unhurriedly in just her tunic, massaging a wound on the sole of her foot where she’d stepped on a thorn that day. It slowly closes over now that she’s paying attention to it,vanishing entirely. He lay back against the headboard in her bed, frowning. _

_ “Eiyr?” _

_ “Hm?” _

_ “We were better as friends. This was interesting, and lovely, but I don’t feel anything romantic for you and I don’t want to jeopardize my relationship with Yennefer for casual sex.” _

_ She over her shoulder, quiet. _

_ “I agree.” She finally stated, turning back away. “We forget about this tomorrow.” _

He wonders now if Eiyrde truly was such an uncomplicated, mature individual, or if she was as volatile and emotional as Len and had simply had centuries to learn how to control it? He struggled to remember how her face looked when she responded to him, but she hadn’t turned to face him fully. For all he knew she had genuinely loved him and his words had gravely hurt her. He began to wonder if the image he had of Eiyrde was really true, or just a facade she wanted him to have of her? Everything before the affair was so clear-cut and simple. She had been such an open, warm person underneath her mystery and dry humor, and that night he couldn’t help but go with the flow of the evening and…

“Mmmm…. What are you doing up?”

Yennefer’s soft hands slid over his bare back and his tense shoulders until she was hugging his body to hers.

“Nothing.” Geralt replied, vanishing the memory of how another woman’s hands had felt in the same place. 

“Nothing won’t keep you up all night every night for over a week.” Yennefer replied. “Keeping secrets from me?”

“Maybe.”

Instantly he feels the aura of the room drop.

“There are no maybes with Geralt of Rivia.” Yennefer replies in a heavy tone. 

“Yes.”

“Yes, there are no maybes, or yes, you are keeping secrets?”

“...I wish I could tell you everything,” He responds, voice thick with emotion. “It’s eating me alive.”

“Then tell me.”

“I can’t. I’m not ready.”

She’s silent a while and then sighs softly, pulling him over so she can lean over him and look him in the eyes. She cups his cheeks and runs her thumb over his scar tenderly, and all over again he aches with regret for all he’s done.

“I’m ready to listen when you’re ready to be rid of your guilt.” She replied cryptically. “But make it fast. I’m worried about you not sleeping. You haven’t been like this in years.”

“...I know.” He responds, sighing and leaning into her touch. “Go back to sleep. I’ll follow soon.”

She smiles and rolls over. True to his word, he turns after her, pulling her close and sinking into the feeling of her form against his own. It’s not over yet.

It’s not over yet.


	8. scars

Miles away, Len stands in front of a cracked wash-room mirror and sobs. 

The bathtub behind him is so thick with blood that it’s become almost entirely opaque, steam still rising from the murky depths, filling the room with the unpleasant tang of copper.

He is scrubbed clean, skin pink and raw, and he clutches the shallower wash-basin below the mirror with white knuckles as he struggles to heal the wound in his face.

He is not his mother’s son. He is barely his mother’s son. He does not have her grace or her patience. When he was young he watched her heal a cut in her palm, down to the bone, in seconds. She tried to teach him how, but he was never as adept as her. Little things, yes. Scrapes. Bruises. Thorn wounds.

Not this.

He breaks down in a fresh wave of tears as he tries with all his might to erase the wound like his mother could. He has succeeded in closing in the edges, a little; where it once spread from his left temple to the right side of his chin, it now only spans from the crest of his cheekbone to just under the middle of his mouth. But still, it slices completely through the flesh of his cheek, leaving a gaping hole in his face, and he begins to give up on healing it without any scarring.

But not yet.

No, he continues to sob and struggle.

He does not want to admit his father did this to him. Does not want to live with a constant reminder that he is an unwanted child, a mistake, an accident, a homewrecker. He can feel his body suffering under the weight of the feat he is trying to achieve, but he doesn’t want to admit that he attacked his own father in a drunken rage to the point where he was physically marred. He can’t live with it. He’s already struggling to live with himself as it is, already so close to drowning under the weight of his grief, his guilt, his self-hatred.

The wound does not close. It has not closed since it was made, despite him spending all day and all night trying to heal it magically without letting it scar. He wonders if the gods are mocking him, marking him as the ugly secret he is. He gives up trying to erase it and uses the last of his energy to just close it before he loses consciousness and blacks out on the washroom floor, sickly from blood loss and dehydration. 

He has, after all, been crying for days.

  
  



	9. fear

Another day, another contract.

Enough time has passed from the last time he’s seen his father for the wound in his face to scar over, the once smooth, pale skin puckering and stubbornly holding an angry red color. It would be years before it would whiten— if it ever did. He had healed it enough so that it was no longer all the way through his cheek, but it hurt like hell to move, so for weeks afterward he kept the same dour scowl all day and night, which kept it from stretching or aching but aided in causing it to scar crooked.

He slithers in the room in the form of a little adder; something he had learned from his mother before he had lost her. Silent, invisibly against the polished wood grain floor.

In seconds he has bitten the back of the banker’s ankle, and the poor man is dead before Len even makes his way back out of the estate. He meets his employer outside in the late afternoon sunlight, stands in human form to take his gold, and leaves to go drinking. 

He enters the tavern and is met by a wall of noise. He grits his teeth and ignores it, shoving towards the bar, short red hair and thick hood hiding his face.

“A flagon of—”

“Ex-fucking-scuse you,” The man next to him snarls. 

“I’m  _ sorry _ ?” Len replied, his tone equally caustic. “Stay out of my way next time.”

“Stay out of  _ your  _ way? Why don’t you say that to my fucking face, you little prick.”

“Stay out of my fucking w—” Len repeats as he turns to the man on his left, his face splitting into a disgusted smirk as he saw the man’s pendant.

“Oh, a witcher. No wonder you’re so fucking entitled. Go shove your head up a kikimora’s ass and leave me the fuck alone.”  
The man stood up; Len was tall, but the stranger still stood over him, considerably wider and heftier than Len.

“You want me to fucking kill you?” 

“Try it.”

The man swings and Len sways back like a serpent, letting the witcher’s blow swing into the man next to him. A barfight starts, but the witcher’s zeroed in on Len, and the boy feels the smallest sliver of fear as he continues to back up, only barely avoiding each blow in the crowded tavern. 

“Stay still, you little shit!”

“Can’t make it too easy for you, can I?” Len replied, his emotions getting the better of him. He liked this. He didn’t have to think of his parents or himself when his life was so obviously on the line. He wanted the witcher to hit him, almost. To make him feel something other than…

He hits a wall and avoids the next blow by throwing a barstool up between him and the witcher’s fist. The barstool shattered and Len decided this was fun; next he hed up a chair, and that was smashed too, and now he was laughing and the witcher was only getting  _ angrier _ .

“WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU LAUGHING AT?! WHAT THE FUCK IS SO FUNNY?!”

Len, through his laughter, grabbed a table instead of a chair, and, finding he couldn’t lift it, was forced to duck as the dark-haired witcher threw another punch at him.

The blow landed on the back of the head of the man behind him and genuine fear shot through Len’s body as he heard and saw the man’s neck instantly snap from the force of the blow.

The witcher wasn’t just  _ angry  _ and looking to teach Len a lesson, he was genuinely trying to  _ kill him _ .

Len panicked and scrambled back, and the witcher lifted the table like it was nothing where Len had just been unable to even shift it. The man threw it down and Len couldn’t get out of the way fast enough; he shrieked in pain as the edge of the table caught his leg and shattered it as he tried to scoot out of the way. He managed to pull the mangled limb out from under the overturned table before the witcher jumped over it, though, and quickly took the form of a mouse and fled.

“HEY! YOU CHEATING LITTLE SHIT—”

Under the threat of being crushed, Len turned back into a human at the door, limping out into the sunlight desperately, hood falling back as he staggered forward away from the furious Witcher.

“HAH! GOT YOU, YOU FUCKING—”

Len let out a shout as he ducked and managed to get clipped in the shoulder instead of the back of the head, but he still felt his scapula crack from the force of the blow and fell face-down into the street. Immediately he felt someone drop over him and roughly flip him over.

“—I wanna see your snotty little face beg for mercy before I—”

Nose bloody and face muddy from landing in the street, Len sobbed and held his hands up in surrender as the Witcher held him up by his shirt with one hand and had the other drawn back to presumably beat the life out of him, literally. Once the Witcher saw Len’s face, however, he hesitated,

“What the f—”

Len saw his chance and took the form of a sparrow, shooting away as fast as he could.

  
  



	10. found

He flew as fast as he could, desperate to get away from the little town. He wouldn’t be surprised if the witcher had killed everyone after not being able to kill him. He changed forms to that of an eagle so he could glide on the wind rather than frantically exhaust himself getting away, the summer countryside flying past him in a blur of beached green. 

Why did the witcher hesitate? Did he know Geralt? Did he recognize him?

Good.

Good?

His mother always warned him to stay away from witchers.

_ They must never see you, son. Do not show them your face.  _

_ Do not cause your father unnecessary trouble. _

No. No, he wanted that witcher to have recognized him. He wanted that angry, violent, murderous man to take it up to his father. To ask why he saw a man who looked exactly like him, who smelled exactly like him, picking fights in a tavern on the shittiest side of the continent. 

He flew for miles and miles until he was in the middle of nowhere; there was nothing as far as his eyes could see. No huts, no villages, not a single column of smoke from a traveler’s campfire, not even any roads.

And then he felt as if he had hit something thick and viscous and it made him feel as if all his insides had been moved around and strained through, and he took the form of a human unwillingly and dropped like a stone. 

He was barely able to retransform long enough to stop from smashing to his death on the steps of a castle that has appeared out of nowhere, but immediately afterward his exhaustion and panic caught up to him and he returned to human form on the steps, gasping in pain as he fell and the shock of landing shot through his broken leg.

“Yen— aah!”

The door opened and immediately slammed shut. Oh, someone lived here. Great.

“Please,” He choked out weakly. “Please, I’m lost.”

He managed to move so he was looking up at the door. He knew he was handsome. More than once he had used his cheeky smile to convince a woman to hide him in the barn for a night or spare him a bite to eat from whatever she was cooking for her household. He was scarred, now, but… It was worth trying, wasn’t it?

“Please. Please, my leg is broken and I’m starving…”

The door creaked open a little and a sheepish, light-brown doe-eye stared out of the gap.

“Who are you?”

He smiled to himself and melted into the steps. Oh, what a sweet voice.

“A lowly traveler; a Witcher started a fight at the tavern I was at… I ran… I don’t know how I ended up here but please, sweet, gracious lady, have pity on a poor soul and help me.”

He gave the eye in the crack of the door his most winning smile.

“You didn’t just watch a fight with a witcher,” She murmured. “You fought the witcher.”

“N-No—”

“Don’t lie to me.”

She opened the door and he stared dumbfounded at the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. 

(He hadn’t seen many women to begin with, but he chose to ignore that tidbit for now.)

Fluffy, dark hair twisted into a low bun, thin, oval face framed by thick bangs; her skin was smooth and unblemished, and while she lacked any curves she had quite a graceful frame. Something about the shy, distrusting look in her eyes was genuinely heart-wrenching to him; it made her look like a fox, graceful and beautiful yet clever and aware.

“You’re so beautiful…” He stated honestly. Her face lit up scarlet and she slammed the door shut again.

“Nooooooo please,” He begged softly, laughing. “Please I promise I won’t compliment you again.”

“I don’t trust you.”

“Please? I wasn’t lying. My leg is broken. Just look, please, it’s… It’s very obvious.”

She peeked out again, and this time instead of meeting his eyes she looked over his form, and he watched her go pasty as she saw how his left leg was bent backward below the knee. She gagged a little and for some reason, it was that little reaction of hers that made him realize just how much it  _ actually  _ hurt. He tried not to cry but couldn’t help it, hiding his face and shaking his head.

“Please, it really hurts,” He managed to get out before his throat closed up from the pressure of his stifled sobs. “It really fucking hurts.”

“Oh, dear.”

She came out and all he could think of as she knelt by him to lift him up and drag him in was how deep blue her gown was; like the ocean, or the night sky. His leg bumps on the doorframe on the way in and he loses his last grip on reality, pukes down his own front from the pain of it, and blacks out.

  
  



	11. secrets

Geralt stands and watches Yennefer pour over a handful of letters, laughing as she read them.

“Good news?”

“Wonderful. The young woman I’ve been teaching, you remember her?.”

“Weronika?”

“Yes, her.”

The girl was a young woman Yennefer had rescued from a brothel after they tried to burn her to death for exploding the genitals of the man who was supposed to be her first customer. 

“I was hoping to send her to work with Ciri, but she has a mind of her own. Still, she hinted at being willing to at least visit.”

“Where’s she gone instead?”

“She read in one of the books I gave her about a hidden observatory full of rare magical plants. She went off to look for it and just wrote back that she’s found it. Apparently it’s quite a lovely property.”

“Well, it’s hers now,” Geralt replied. “Finders keepers.”

She laughed.

“Sure.”

She then turned to look at Geralt once more, violet eyes burning into his.

“Will you tell me what’s been bothering you now?”

Geralt couldn’t stop himself.

“I had an affair 20 years ago.”

“You had a—  _ what? _ ”

“Eiyrde. We got drunk after taking down a nest of beasts together. Crashed at her place. Had sex. Immediately afterward I told her it was a mistake and she agreed. We slept the rest of the night in separate rooms. Never spoke about it again and she went missing three months later.”

“But— why tell me  _ now _ ? Why would you—”

“Because—”

“I FINALLY FUCKING FOUND YOU,” A loud voice shouted before storming into the room.

“Lambert, this is  _ not  _ a good time—” Geralt snapped as he turned around.

“Shut the fuck up and explain to me why a younger version of  _ you  _ just picked a fight with me in a fucking tavern in Novigrad!”

Yennefer turned on Geralt, furious.

“Oh,  _ no.  _ If this goes where I think it will—”

“Eiyrde caught a djinn fifty years ago and tried to wish for us to have a child of our own!” Geralt shouted before Lambert could get another word in. “Except she fucked up and now  _ her son  _ is running around causing trouble for himself and  _ I’m  _ trying to  _ fix what I did _ !”

“I’m going to fucking kill her—” Yennefer started.

“She’s been dead for five years!” Geralt replied. 

“I’ll bring her back to kill her again!”

“STILL DOESN’T FIX HIM PICKING A FUCKING FIGHT WITH ME!”

“He tried to fight me, too, Lambert, you’re not fucking special!”

“Are you the one that gave him that fucked up scar on his face, then?”

“You scarred your own  _ child _ ?” Yennefer shouted, getting more wound up by the second.

“It was an ACCIDENT!”

“Yeah, you accidentally fucking slashed him across his entire face, great  _ job _ , Dad, so  _ glad  _ you out of the fucking three of us got blessed with the chance to have a child of your own. Can’t imagine Eskel mutilating his own child or cheating on his woman, now, can I—”

“I KNOW I FUCKED UP!”

The damage has already been done. It’s a strange sense of both grief, regret, and relief that wells up in Geralt’s chest as he stands there struggling to catch his breath as Yennefer portals away and Lambert looks at him in bitter disgust.

“You’re lucky I didn’t fucking murder that fucking snothead,” Lambert snapped. “You fucking  _ owe me _ . That is if you manage to survive long enough to clean up your own fucking mess now that you’ve pissed Yennefer off.”

“If you’re not going to be of any help, fuck off.”

“As if I want to be anywhere near you anyways.”

Lambert left and Geralt groaned and slumped into the nearest chair.

“Novigrad, really? Fuck’s sake, Len…”

  
  



	12. comfort

Len feels so spoiled.

So beyond spoiled.

He hasn’t been this well-cared for since his mother died.

Fuck, not even. Eiyrde was… a good mother, but she was never doting. She was always more of the cry-it-out then walk-it-off kind of mother.

The mystery girl had cleaned him up and put him in a bed; considering he’d been sleeping on tavern floors and straw cots for years now, it was close to heavenly. The blankets were heavy and warm, weighted around his body like a warm hug, and the pillows behind his head propped him up cozily. 

The heavy oak door to the room opened and Len leaned up to look; in came the mystery girl, carrying a tray that smelled  _ heavenly _ .

“I baked apples.” She murmured softly. “You up to eat?”

“Oh I would love to eat,” He tried to sit up and instantly gagged as he felt pain shoot through his shoulder.

“Easy. You got your scapula cracked in half.”

“Fuck, I’m not surprised, with how much it hurts—” He continued as her soft hands helped him sit up. His chest was bandaged, his arm in a sling, and when he ventured his free hand to see if he had his trousers on—

“Relax.” The girl replied calmly as she poured him a glass of water from the pitcher on his bedside. “I didn’t see anything. You just puked all over yourself, so I took your clothes to wash them. They are outside drying.”

Still, Len sat there with burning cheeks as she turned to him and offered the bowl and a fork.

“You can’t move your right arm, so you can choose to try and eat with your left hand or let me feed you.”

He tried to buck up and pull his flirty smile back out.

“Let a beauty like you feed me? Why ever n—”

He gagged as she shoved a whole slice into his mouth and choked while huffing to try and cool it off.

“Stop it,” She replied, frowning. “You’re putting on a show for an audience that’s already paying your dues.”

He swallowed and gave her a guilty smile.

“Old habits die hard.”

“Well they better die here.” She whispered, offering him another slice. “I’m not the person to kiss up to.”

“That’s fair.” Len replied softly.

She fed him the rest of the bowl in silence, and Len’s entire world comfortably narrowed down to a pretty girl and delicious food. His sore heart leaned into it, leaned into the sweet taste of cinnamon and apple, her soft expression and tender voice. This was the kind of life he always wanted. A couple that stays together. Loyalty.

“What’s your name?”

She looked at him curiously and flipped the question around.

“What’s yours?”

“Len.” The boy replied cluelessly, eager to appease her. “Why are you here? Who do you work for?”

She deflected again.

“Who do  _ you _ work for?”

“I kill people for the Church of the Eternal Flame.”

“...Oh.” She replied quietly, setting the bowl and fork down in her lap, the oak tableware a warm brown against the midnight of her skirts. “Len, I think you should go. I bound and set your leg and I have a horse you can take—”

“Wait, why?” He asked as he sat up. “I don’t even know your name.”

“It’s best you don’t—”

“Weronika! Weronika, are you here?”

“...Oh no.” Weronika whispered softly, standing and setting the bowl aside. “Len, you have to leave. Now.”

“But my clothes—”

“Are outside—” She took off her capelet and tossed it at him to cover himself with. “—Hanging from the oak tree.  _ Go. _ ”

“Weronika—”

“Stop it and go!”

She pushed him towards what he could only assume was a servant’s passage and shut the door behind him.

Confused and emotional, Len limped down the narrow servant’s stairs, coming out in a… courtyard of sorts. He couldn’t look straight at it, as if some kind of barrier covered all the plants, but there, in the far corner, were his clothes, swaying on a low branch of the tree.

He snatched down what he could, hearing raised voices from the building behind himself, and ran into a side room to dress. 

Once he was dressed, he clicked Weronika’s capelet around his throat and took the form of a fox (just like her, he thought) and raced out. 

A few yards from the outer wall of the castle he again felt as if he had run through a barrier of some kind, and he fell forward, changing forms a few times before he regained the shape of a fox.

He turned and ran, once more fleeing for miles and miles before sundown forced him to stop. He slumped against the trunk of a tree and took human form once more, panting and exhausted, aching in his shoulder and his leg.

He struggled and fought and managed to heal the fracture in his shoulder, at least, but his leg… that could take months, more than a year to heal. 

He wondered why Weronika had kicked him out so suddenly. Maybe she heard the other woman come in before he did; wouldn’t surprise him, as he had been completely zoned out and focused on her. Maybe it was some kind of convent, and she wasn’t supposed to have male guests? He was upset; he wanted that comfort she had made him feel. More than just want, he needed it. He needed to prove good relationships exist. No cheating. No lies. No secrecy. He could do it. He could do it and prove his parents were just flawed people and that’s why they messed up so horribly. 

How would he start? Women liked gifts, right?

He would go take the biggest bounty he could get and buy Weronika the world.

  
  



	13. escalation

“I can’t believe him! I can’t forgive him!”

Weronika had led Yennefer straight into the garden, hoping to mask the scent of a stranger with the layers upon layers of enchanted flower perfume and woody musk of the plants held there.

“You knew… the woman, right?”

“Peripherally,” Yennefer scoffed. “Eiyrde was so… sexless, I never cared about it. She dressed like a man, acted like a man. Cut her hair short, never wore anything feminine or revealing. I never sensed anything but friendship between the two, or I would never have let Geralt run off with her constantly! ...I even thought she and Lambert had a thing, for fuck’s sake, but not Geralt.”

“Maybe it really was a mistake, then. He said they were drunk, didn’t he?”

“ _ Yes _ , but that doesn’t change the fact that he was unloyal and lied to me about it!”

“Did he lie?”

“He never told me!”

“If it really was a mistake I’m sure it humiliated him that it had occurred. He didn’t tell you because it was embarrassing and from what I understand the two of them had mutually agreed to pretend it never happened.”

“And why not come out about it when he found he had a  _ child _ ?!”

“He was in too deep and he knew that was something that would hurt you deeply?” Weronika offered softly. 

“But to abandon a  _ child _ ?”

“I’m sure he regrets this deeply. It’s a woefully convoluted situation. But he’s telling you now and I’m sure the son is in dire need of more than just a father figure now.”

“But the boy  _ had  _ his mother!”

“And she died. He was a mistake and I’m sure he knew it. There’s no way he couldn’t understand that his existence ruined a friendship, possibly ruined a relationship, and ruined his mother’s life, too, if she was forced to go from this… masculine adventurer to a single mother. I can respect you not forgiving Geralt. But--”

“I would  _ never  _ blame this on the child,” Yennefer interjected with a frightful glare to Weronika for even daring to  _ imagine  _ she would hold something against Len. “And maybe I can and will forgive him for one drunken night of error. But I can’t forgive him for abandoning  _ his child _ . Especially now that we know how deeply into the wrong his son has gone when left unattended. I can’t imagine  _ why  _ he-- the Geralt I know-- would just leave  _ his child _ .”

“Then talk to him. Ask him why.”

“I am  _ far  _ too angry to speak to him right now.”

“Maybe getting some answers will make you less angry.”

“Or angrier.”

“In any case, staying here can’t help.” Weronika replied.

“Perhaps. But how does your studying go?...”

Hours later, after much talking and much of Weronika proving she was keeping up on her applied magic studies and not just wasting time burying her head in plants as she was want to do, they arranged that Weronika would be left to play in her own interests for another week before travelling to test out living with Ciri (Yennefer hoped to make Weronika into a better court sorceress than any of the ones that had come from Aretuza; it was proving to be a significant undertaking, with how passive Weronika liked to be). 

Yennefer said goodbye and left Weronika to herself, and the wily young woman went to hunt down her little friend.

  
  



	14. breaking

Len stands over his latest victim, high on the violence and power of it all. This was a court mage. A victorious kill.

But not enough.

No, he must go for the highest fruit in the highest tree.

Cintra.

The prime enemy.

With the bounty on Empress Cirilla, he could buy Weronika the continent over.

_ And revenge _ , the wound in his heart whispers.  _ Kill the child Geralt chose. The child Geralt did not abandon. _

_ Kill your better. _

_ Prove you are better. _

_ Prove he should have chosen you as well. _

Yennefer pours over her pupil’s letter, scanning it carefully.

_ Yen, _

_ I am making my way to Cintra now. I wish to see my adoptive family once before beginning my work with Ciri.  _

_ Please consider speaking it over with Geralt before I reach Cintra. I will be a while as I am searching for something along the way.  _

_ If you won’t, please at least meet me in Cintra yourself. I’m sure Ciri would love to see you as well. _

_ With love, _

_ Nika _

Yennefer scowls and casts the letter in the fire. She will not be the first to mend the gap between them when it was he who committed the cardinal sin.

But it is a good idea, she imagines, to see to the beginning of Ciri and Nika’s time together. So she will go, when the time comes. When her daughters meet.

_ Little does she know three letters went out. _

_ One to her. _

_ One to Geralt. _

_ One to Ciri.  _

_ She will see them all soon. _

Weronika rides across the continent on a white horse, heading toward Cintra. Ciri expects her; and her sister by choice now knows of everything.

_ They did not grow up together. _

_ But they are close in age, and Weronika does see what she has the ability to do at Ciri’s side. _

_ No secrets, she decides.  _

_ Her sister will know all. _

Try as she might, she does not find Len along the way. So she powers on and reaches Cintra one late afternoon, arriving at the gates with the return letter from Ciri.

“I am Weronika, sister to the Empress!” She declares, holding up the letter with Ciri’s sigil. “Grant me passage to her side!”

_ Len slips into the castle in the form of a butterfly, fluttering in through an open window. And then he is a spider, crawling along the ceiling and listening for where the Empress will be. _

_ ‘Her bedchambers,’ a maid whispers in gossip. ‘Her sister, come to visit.’ _

_ He decides he will hunt her in the form of an adder, as all great women die. _

Weronika hurries down the halls, carrying herself the way Yennefer has taught, with arrogance and pride and iciness. 

All four parties make their way to Ciri’s chambers, each in their own way. Geralt, up a passage Ciri has told only him about— Weronika, up the main passage— Len, slithering through the cracks in the walls— and Yen, preparing to portal in as she is wont to do.

Weronika and Len enter at the same time; Weronika through the door, and Len shooting from a mouse hole in the wall, fangs bared and launching straight towards the Empress’s ankle as she rises to greet her sister.

Weronika notices immediately, and time slows as Ciri immediately notices the mage’s look and turns to see the adder inches from her ankle.

Ciri teleports behind Weronika just as Geralt and Yennefer enter from opposite sides of the room, and Weronika casts her hand out and the serpent is smashed back against the wall.

Time resumes to its normal pace as the room explodes into sound.

“WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT,” Geralt roars, instinctively drawing his blade as Weronika’s wall of magic blasts just past his nose. 

“Ciri!” 

Yennefer looks to her daughter to see if she is alright and Ciri gives a firm nod.

Weronika lowers her hand as the serpent takes human form, blood staining his teeth.

“Witch!” He sobs miserably, staring at Weronika with heartache and heartbroken confusion in his eyes. “Sorceress! Illusionist! Child of the enemy!”

“Shut your mouth, boy,” Geralt warns. Nika is less so his child than Ciri, but he won’t stand for her to be mocked so. 

“You’re the boy?” Yennefer demands accusingly. “You? A pathetic coward who stalks his prey in the form of a serpent?”

“SHUT UP, WITCH!” Len shouts, in tears as he is cornered. 

“You try to assassinate me?” Ciri asks in offense, standing taller than any other in the room. 

“HE CHOSE YOU! HE RAISED YOU!” Len wails.

“He works for the Eternal Flame.” Weronika spoke in shame. “I should not have spared you when I did, Len.”

“You spared him? You had  _ seen  _ him and did not tell me?” Yennefer demanded.

“Enough,” Geralt interjected. “Len. It’s not too late. I’m here now. I’m choosing you now. Len, I’ve only ever wanted what was best for you.”

“No—  _ No— _ “

He presses himself against the wall.

“No. Weronika is Ciri’s sister, and Ciri is my sister. My only reason for life—“

“I met you once and I am Ciri’s sister through adoption, as you are her sister through the same,” Weronika stated flatly. “I am not your reason for life and the bonds of family do not divide us.”

“But—“

Yennefer twists her face in disgust.

“You heard your father, boy. Stop your misguided babbling. After all you’ve done he still wants the best for you,” She snarls, crossing her arms and showing her care in her harsh words. ”...And perhaps I can say the same, if it means getting your thick ass off the streets and out of those imbecile’s hands.”

Len looks to Weronika and Ciri, who now stand side by side.

“I should not have let you out of my sight,” Weronika affirms. “But I stand by saving your life and caring for you.”

“So I’m supposed to forgive the bastard for trying to kill me?” Ciri asks incredulously. “Whatever. Plenty have tried before and none of them succeeded. Consider my vote in favor of the intervention.”

Len stands there and weeps silently for a few moments, before covering his face with his hands and breaking out into genuine sobs as he collapses to the floor. 

“I don’t deserve it. I’m a monster,” He sobs. “It’s all over my face.  _ I don’t deserve to live.  _ Just kill me, please. I’ve ruined so much.”

Geralt sighs and sheaths his sword, kneeling down to embrace the trembling boy, the self-hating sobs all too familiar. Yennefer moves by the two but only places her hand on Geralt’s shoulder, willing to work with him until the dust settles. And next Weronika, who kneels before the two men and uses the loose fabric at her cuffs to dry Len’s eyes, and Ciri who joins the group just behind Weronika with a hand on the sorceress’s shoulder.

  
  



	15. reconciliation

“How is he?”

Hours have passed. Len surrendered all his weapons to Geralt and Yennefer and he and his father locked themselves in a cell to talk it out while Yennefer played mediator. Weronika has just returned to Ciri from bringing the other three ale and bread, eyes tired.

“He isn’t crying anymore, at least.” She comments quietly. “He and Geralt are discussing withdrawing to Kaer Morhen to spend some time together and test Len’s abilities and see how many of Geralt’s mutations made it through into his blood.”

“How’s Yen handling?”

“She’s glowering up a storm, but I suspect she and Geralt will have a talk of their own after Len’s cried himself out.”

“Good. You know, you were very clever about all this. And you did save my life.”

Weronika shrugged.

“Just trying to make a good impression on my first day.”

The two held a deadpan gaze for a few moments before Weronika grinned and Ciri burst into laughter. 

“I think I will deeply enjoy working with you, Nika.”

“And I you, Ciri. What say you, shall we have a glass of wine each to celebrate a successful day?”

“You’ve read my mind. And maybe afterwards we can go spy on the poor bastards downstairs.”

“Oh, absolutely.”

“Tell me why,” Geralt asks, staring across the cell at the snot-smeared boy across from him.

“I was so lost after Eiyr died,” Len sobs. “It was okay that I didn’t have you when she was alive. She was so strong and brave I never felt like I needed a father. But… when she died…. I had nowhere to go, and I started to— you had done nothing for us, nothing at all! We never needed you, but when I finally did…. You just took my coin and left. So I hated you, I hated witchers, and the sorceress was that cavort with them, and…. the church, it…”

“They played into your petty wounds and roped you into being their lapdog.” Yennefer scoffed from the doorway, glaring up at the ceiling. Len only nodded weakly.

“But why Ciri?” Geralt continued.

“She— when she needed you, you were there for her!” Len sobbed. “And they— they would have given me the world for killing her, and I could…”

“You love her, don’t you?” Yennefer laughed out in a slightly cold tone. “My Nika. Did you not know she was a sorceress as well? The last kind of person you would want to brag to about being part of the Eternal Flame?”

Len, humiliated, looks away, leaving Yennefer to only laugh more.

Geralt himself can’t hold back a small grin.

“Yen, please. He’s been through enough,” He states as he tries to smother down his grin. Len had been pretty stupid, after all. “Look, Len. I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you when you felt you needed me. But I’m here now—“

“Ale and bread?”

“Please—“ Geralt states, and Weronika comes in to pass all three of them flagons and rolls. Len avoids looking at her.

“As I was saying. I’m sorry. Look…. we can’t fix all of this overnight. Why don’t we takes some time to cool off, and then head to Kaer Morhen together. Spend some time with each other.”

Len nods weakly and sniffs.

“Yeah, I’d… I’d like that.”

“Hey.”

Geralt opened his arms and the boy all but launched himself into the embrace, crying anew.

“That’s all I wanted,” Len sobbed. “I just wanted… I just…”

Geralt quietly pat the boy’s head, hoping to soothe some of the boy’s wounds. He’s lucky he caught Len so vulnerable after being caught off guard by seeing Weronika. He didn’t think he could ever repair what was between them if he and Len had fought even once more. 

After a while Len finally pulled away, wiping his eyes, and informed the two he would like to have some time alone to think, so Geralt and Yennefer left him to sleep the night in the cell— after all, he had to face some kind of punishment for trying to kill his sort-of-sister.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> To try and pre-emptively avoid some confusion, the character Eiyrde is from a separate work of mine and from a race not otherwise present in the Witcher universe. I may upload her's and Geralt's story in the future, but all one really needs to know is that she is a shapeshifter, but unlike dopplers cannot mimic others; she can turn into versions of herself from whatever species she's touched before, and while she spends most time as a 'human' that is not her true form, and in both her own world and the world of the Witcher, she worked as a bounty hunter (not monster bounties).


End file.
